


The Oceans In Your Eyes

by revengeandotherdrugs



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Porn, Blow Jobs, Canon Era, Friends With Benefits, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mutual Pining, and Enjolras - Freeform, grantaire likes the sky, i cant write porn, mostly Enjolras, mostly angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 19:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2633525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revengeandotherdrugs/pseuds/revengeandotherdrugs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's nights like these when Enjolras takes him home, when he can pretend, however briefly that he is loved and desired and that the words whispered against his sweat slicked neck are not lies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Oceans In Your Eyes

The sky is like oceans tonight. Deep blues layered upon the royal purples streaked with fingers of green and grey; clouds reflecting low-slung sunlight across the Parisian sky. It is the color of souls and the color of peace. Grantaire would love it all the more if it were red. 

He is laying on his back, the roof-tiles of the Musain digging into the hollow space between his shoulderblades. It is peaceful there, a sanctuary of the days last light He has three bottles of wine and tears enough to swim in; a cavern where his heart should be that swallows every shuddering breath he takes. The night tastes of alcohol and autumn, the spice of wood smoke fills the air. It won't be long now before the winter arrives; harsh king winter with his beard of ice and fingernails of frost, cutting down the ill and the hungry like sheaves of wheat. 

He takes another swig of wine, letting the heat of it push away the chill. 

The voices of young men issue up from below, a youthful chorus of life and friendship and a foolish faith in a world that will never show them anything but pain. They are still children yet, and Grantaire, though not even a year their senior, feels ages old when faced with their hopeful nievete. 

Grantaire is not one of them. He is his own, drawn by their light but doomed to live in the shadows of it. They speak of revolution, they dream of a just and equal world, they sing and they drink and they burn themselves away. They are young and passionate, gripped by a senseless desire to save. They slit their own veins and trace blood over the doorways of the helpless to ward against tyranny like the Isrialites of old. 

Sometimes Grantaire believes he is the only one who can see the stain that the blood leaves behind and how the scent of it attracts only the rats. 

He thinks of himself as an oracle of sorts; he sees their future, the massacre that is the only outcome and it pierces him deeper than any bayonet. He speaks in cynical ways not out of disrespect for the cause but out of love for his friends; it is a vain hope that perhaps he can dissuade them from their suicide.  

The soft approach of footsteps, the confident step as familiar as breathing. Grantaire does not move, one hand curled around the bottle, his eyes trained on the mercurial sky. It is one of those nights.

"why do you insist on being alone?" Enjolras asks; his voice is warmth and lightning fires, a deep tennor that paints the color of the sky with each syllable.

"I do not belong" he does not, he is a stranger among the strange.

" after the revolution all men will belong" Enjolras curls his legs and sits, knee by Grantaire's shoulder; he is a long, lean line of red and gold, barely visible in Grantaire's peripheral vision. He does not turn his head. 

"the revolution will come soon" the leader continues, reaching out long fingers to trace the sharpness of the slate. "people will die..." 

They have had this conversation before, many times, in many ways. Enjolras is the only other that recognizes the sacrifices that must be made. Even logical Combeferre believes that goodness will triumph, just this once.

"that is what people do" Grantaire replies, pretending he does not hear the desperation in Enjolras' voice.

"it will be my fault" 

It is stated as a fact but there is guilt there, underneath the surface. Beneath the marble Enjolras possesses a lovers soul and a heart that beats with blood and feels pain like any other. To Enjolras it is repulsive, to Grantaire it is a thing of priceless wonder.

Grantaire lifts his head and places it upon Enjolras' knee. They fit together like lovers might, soft and sure and familiar; it hurts in ways Grantaire didn't know it was possible to hurt, a harsh bite against his windpipe and a hand around his heart. 

"the world does not answer to you Apollo; even you can not take responsibility for the turning of the universe. They will be there, fighting because they wish to, because they believe in the cause"

Enjolras' fingers cease their restless patterns on the slate and tangle themselves in Grantaire's hair,  silky black strands curling like ink against the gold of Enjolras' skin.

"and you?" he asks after a long moment "Where will you be?" 

"I would die by your side; if you would permit it"

Enjolras' fingers tighten painfully against Grantaire's scalp. Grantaire can not see his face but he can guess at his expression, disgust at being placed on such a pedestal. 

"you will not die Grantaire"

"I shall, eventually." he gestures with his hand, taking in the wide expanse of Paris. "If it is not the drink that kills me it will be the barricade, and if it is not the barricade it will be my own hand and if even that fails illness will get me before long" 

"do not speak so..." 

"I shall. It is the truth you are fighting for is it not? Let me have mine"

Enjolras laughs, harsh and dry; Grantaire can feel it beneath his head. "even your truths are cynical Grantaire"

"Indeed?" . 

Enjolras traces his fingers though Grantaire's curls, picking apart tangles and setting wayward locks back in order. Grantaire allows himself to melt into the touch, every soft brush of Enjolras' fingers against his scalp sending shivers down his spine. 

It is not often that Enjolras comes to him like this and even less often that he allows Grantaire these moments of closeness, these soft touches and this meaningless gentileness that tears apart his soul just as it keeps him whole. It is moments like these that Grantaire pretends that he is something more to Enjolras than just a willing body to absorb the passion in his heart and temper the fire of his soul. 

After a long moment Enjolras speaks, hands stilling in Grantaire's hair. 

"I've rented a room" the words send lightning down Grantaire's spine "will you come?" 

"I will follow" the words have a double meaning but if Enjolras notices he doesn't comment. He gently takes Grantaire's head and places it back upon the tiles. There is the rustle of fabric as he stands and then the soft beat of his footsteps receding back across the roof and down the stairs.

Nights like this do not come often, nights when Enjolras' heart beats too strongly and his soul burns too brightly and he needs to find release or be consumed; nights when he seeks out Grantaire to dull his passions and sate his hunger. Grantaire longs for these nights, when he can feel that he is of some use to Enjolras, to the cause; when he can pretend, however briefly that the words Enjolras whispers against his sweat-slicked skin are the truth. Enjolras asks for only all that his men have to give, and Grantaire, good (in his own mind) for nothing but this, will gladly give him everything. 

Grantaire allows himself to lay still for a while longer, the sharp bite of the wind raising goosebumps across his skin and the sky slowly going dark. It is the color of the deep sea now, the sky; dark blue and black with the stars like little silver fishes making brief sparkling appearances through the Parisian smog. He would paint it, had he the talent or the means but lately even his art has deserted him. 

After a while he stands, taking a long swig of the wine, emptying the bottle and tossing it to join the broken body of its fellow in the street. He leaves the one unopened bottle on the roof in the hope that he might find it again or that it may comfort another lonely soul hiding from the truth.

He takes the stairs slowly, unsure if the cloudiness of his mind is his own. 

The door to the room is ajar, soft firelight filtering out into the hall. Grantaire takes a moment to steady himself before he pushes it open, hands shaking. 

Enjolras is seated in a wooden chair before the fire, reading; the golden light casting the angles of his marble face into stern light and gentile shadow. He has removed his coat and loosened his cravat and the fabric hangs in soft folds from around the gilt column of his throat. He is a lion, golden hair undone and hanging like a mane about the regal set of his shoulders; He is a king, a god upon earth and all Grantaire desires in that moment is to fall upon his knees and worship every centimeter he is allowed. 

Enjolras sees him and stands, placing the book on the table beside the bed. He looks softer without his red coat, and more deadly. The sharp color of the coat serves to temper the innate sharpness of the man himself; without it he resembles a sword or a knife, sharp and steely and beautiful.

Grantaire shuts the door behind himself and closes the distance between them; standing close enough that he can see the freckles on his nose and feel each exhale of breath against his face. 

In the flickering firelight Enjolras' lips are the color of wine; soft and bitten-red, little teeth marks in the skin where he likes to worry it while he thinks. Grantaire leans in to kiss him, but is halted by Enjolras' hand against his cheek. He pulls back, Enjolras doesn't take his hand away.

Blue eyes hold green; Enjolras' thumb stroking the cut of Grantaire's cheekbone, soft fingertip catching on stubble. 

"do you consent?" he asks after a moment, his palm warm and gentile against Grantaire's cheek.

The soft hitch of Grantaire's breath would've seemed an embarrassment under other circumstances

"yes... Always yes" 

Enjolras kisses him then, lips like fire and tasting of salvation. Grantaire melts into it, pulling them close; wrapping his hands around Enjolras' back and opening his lips for that burning tongue. Enjolras kisses like a man possessed, tasting the softness of Grantaires mouth like it was sustenance and he was starving. Grantaire is losing breath, quick panting gasps all that he allows himself before he takes Enjolras' lips again. He doesn't know how long it will be until he can have this again, until Enjolras will give him this again, and so he takes everything he can. He works his hands beneath the soft fabric of Enjolras' shirt, pushing his waistcoat off of his shoulders. Questing fingers find a nipple and twist, the soft bud going hard beneath Grantaire's touch.

Enjolras jerks his hips upward, a soft gasp released into the kiss, the long hot line of his cock rubbing against Grantaire's stomach. He breaks the kiss, pushing Grantaire towards the bed with heavy hands against his chest. Grantaire resists the loss of those savior lips, reaching blindly to reclaim them, but goes willingly, standing by the bed and watching.

Enjolras removes his shirt, folding it carefully and placing it over the back of the chair. Enjolras is a picture of Grecian perfection, the long soft curls of his hair tempered by the lean curves of his muscles, the sharp jut of his collarbones, the gentile trail of light hair leading down toward the waistband of his trousers; he is very much a man and Grantaire aches for him. The firelight kisses the soft muscles of his stomach, running tongues of light over his skin. Grantaire releases a low sound of delight and longing, cock leaping inside his trousers; he wants to touch, to taste, to suck marks onto every piece of skin he can reach. 

In three strides he is across the room, catching Enjolras' back against his chest, running awed hands over naked skin. Enjolras shivers against him, rocking his hips back and up, along the hard line of Grantaire's cock. He moans, muffling himself by sucking at the junction of Enjolras' neck and shoulder, breathing his desire against golden skin. 

he wants, dear god he wants. 

He contents himself by slipping his hand low over soft skin, beneath the waist of Enjolras' trousers, nails marking paths. He tugs gently at the softness of the hair he finds, soliciting another soft groan and hip thrust from the marble statue in his arms. Enjolras' cock is hard and hot against his hand, sticky already from the amount of precome leaking down his shaft. 

He is overcome with the desire to taste, to run his tongue over the slicked head of Enjolras' cock, to show his devotion on his knees. The picture makes him moan aloud.

He spins Enjolras about, kissing him firmly and pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed. the man goes without complaint, legs falling wide, cheeks flushed and eyes blown dark with lust; the black of his pupil nearly eclipsing icy blue. 

When Grantaire drops to his knees at Enjolras' feet his face contorts with horror. He grips a hand to Grantaire's shoulder and tries to push him away, to pull him up, to make them equal again. 

"Grantaire..." his voice is breathless, lust addled, as he tries to close his legs, an impossible task with Grantaire kneeling between them."Please...I can not allow you to debase yourself so..."

He trails off into a quiet gasp when Grantaire breathes a soft huff of air against the wet spot at the front of his trousers. 

"Enjolras... " his voice is scratchy, tongue heavy against the roof of his mouth. He meets Enjolras' eyes and it is like seeing God. "Let me give you this, if nothing else, let me give you my body"

He trails his hands up the insides of Enjolras' thighs, feels them relax and fall open wider under his touch. Enjolras groans deep in his throat and nods, eyes falling shut.

Enjolras' cock, drawn through the unbuttoned front of his trousers, stands red and hard against his stomach. The tip leaking profusely, pearls of fluid running like stars across the shiny head and getting caught in the taut foreskin. 

Grantaire leans forward, giving a soft kitten-lick to one of the falling pearls of fluid, moaning at the taste that explodes over his tongue. Enjolras' cock gives a twitch, expelling more fluid and wrenching a soft gasp from Enjolras' spit-slick cherry lips. 

Grantaire wastes no time in parting his lips and sucking the head of Enjolras' cock into his mouth. 

The moan Enjolras' releases is enough to have Grantaire's cock twitching in his trousers. Enjolras' cock is warm and smooth against the inside of his lips. He opens his mouth wider and lets another few centimeters slip into his waiting mouth untill the head brushes up against his soft palate. It is heavy against his tongue, salty and bitter. Grantaire gives an experimental suck, choking as Enjolras shouts and thrusts down his throat.

"Grantaire..." perhaps it is the beginning of an apology, perhaps not but Grantaire sucks again and his name dissolves into a broken moan. 

He reaches into his own trousers, pulling out his cock and groaning at the sensation of skin on hot skin. He sucks at Enjolras' cock, letting the other man fuck his throat as he jacks himself into his fist. 

Enjolras' moans intensify until they are almost shouts. He thrusts blindly, head thrown back, hair mussed and clinging to the sweaty skin of his chest and forehead; the picture of divine extasy. 

Grantaire can't help but think that this is where he belongs, on his knees before Enjolras with his cock in his mouth; showing his love in the only way he can. It is a hethan form of worship but it is the only kind that Grantaire can give, and the only kind Enjolras will accept.

Enjolras comes with a scream, seeming to glow almost too brightly too look at, hips thrusting off the bed. He shoots deep into Grantaire's throat, come coating Grantaire's tongue and spilling out the sides of his mouth. He chokes on it, pulling back and spitting some of it out onto the floor. 

He doesn't notice Enjolras is talking until the ringing in his ears ceases. 

"...so beautiful... Grantaire..." Enjolras is laying back against the pillows, chest heaving and eyes closed. His spent cock hangs limply out of his trousers, slick with Grantaire's spit and his come. 

Grantaire remains kneeling on the ground, breathing shallowly and jacking his cock with quick movements of his hand. His mouth still tastes of Enjolras and he chases the taste, every morsel of it bringing him closer to the edge. 

"come here" Enjolras orders, opening eyes the color of stormy breakers "let me..." He pulls Grantaire to join him on the bed, pushing him so that Enjolras can straddle his hips, pressing soft kisses to his chest. Enjolras' had joins Grantaire's around his cock, soft and sure and golden, calluses rubbing just rough enough to pull a moan from between Grantaire's clenched teeth. 

Enjolras' mouth finds the hard nub of a nipple and he bites down, rolling the hardened skin between his teeth. Grantaire's hips jerk upwards into their combined hands, gasping at the sharp flare of pain. Enjolras slithers upwards then, sucking gently on Grantaire's collarbone. The ends of his hair raise goosebumps along Grantaire's stomach. 

"Grantaire" whispered against the soft skin of his neck, gripping tightly at Grantaire's cock, hot breath sending shivers through his skin "come"

And Grantaire, who can never deny Enjolras anything, comes with a shout; his world going blank at the edges. 

Enjolras collapses into him, pulling the blankets from underneath them and burrowing into them, curling himself against Grantaire's side. Grantaire presses careful lips to Enjolras' spine, the iron has been melted out of it and he curls softly, sated, like a cat, nearly asleep already. Grantaire breathes him in, savors the closeness, knowing this is the only time he will ever feel this loved. 

If Grantaire breathes of his broken hearted anguish against the curve of Enjolras' shoulder he is asleep too soon to remember.

And if Enjolras awakes in the early dawn and sobs confessions of love and repentance against the soft skin over Grantaire's heart no one is awake to know. 

 

Grantaire awakes alone and goes to the roof. He takes the third bottle from it's hiding place and drinks it all, the familiar feeling of being utterly lost swamping his very soul. 

The revolution will come, his friends will die and he will die with them. He has no choice, he can not live alone, without them, without him. He will die at Enjolras' feet, where he belongs; a dog, a body to be used and tossed aside. 

The dawn sky is red and gold, an ocean stained with blood, and he loves it. He has no heart left to break so he toasts drunkenly to its good health and cries until he laughs. 

**Author's Note:**

> So I was home sick today and decided it would be a good idea to write 3,000 words of porny angst. And then I discovered that I can't write porn to save my soul and this is what happened.  
> Apologies for all mistakes and terrible writing, this is unbetaed and I have the flu xD


End file.
